


Category Ten

by beetle



Category: Flight of the Conchords (TV)
Genre: Banter, Bottom Dave, Boys In Love, Coming Out, Dorks in Love, Failboats, Failboats In Love, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Flight of the Conchords AU, Idiots in Love, M/M, Morning After, Murray's Mum, One Night Stands, Snark, Top Murray
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 03:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Dave had invited Murray to the party? Well, he doesn't, but Murray shows up, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Night Stand

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: Set in S1, Ep1.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten ficlets about Dave and Murray's relationship, set to ten random songs from my media player.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in S1, Ep1, goes AU immediately.

Stealer's Wheel: Stuck In The Middle With You

  
  
Dave wakes up with the third worst hangover he's ever had that wasn't family related, and groans into the hair of whatever beer-goggles skank he'd hooked up with. She makes a weird snuffling sound, halfway between a snore and a snort, and snuggles back against him. It's a bright spot of  _wow_  that momentarily stills the sledgehammer breaking the walls of his skull.  
  
  
He eases his boxers down--he's still mostly dressed: shirt pushed up, jeans tangled around his ankles, boxers askew--and presses himself against a warm, firm ass. His hangover has become the least important thing about this morning.  
  
  
He reaches over one bony hip to finger her awake and meets wood just as morning as his own. It's at this point Dave realizes it's time to open his eyes and roll the "lady" over.  
  
  
After blind-shuttered sunlight finishes skewering his eyes, he's looking over at a messy mop of ginger hair that curls just a little at the ends. He only knows one person with hair that color, and even though he doesn't want to, he turns his bedmate flat on  _his_  back and finds himself looking into the eyes of someone he's cultivated a dislike of for nearly a year.  
  
  
“Good morning, David,” Murray chirps brightly, blinking and yawning. His Polo shirt is half on, half off, and his chest is covered in coppery hair. “Corker of a night, wasn't it?”  
  
  
“I'm still asleep.” Dave flops down on the bed next to Murray, who's not really there, anyway. He closes his eyes and wishes for a time machine. Or an aneurysm. “This is just some fucked up dream, like that time I dreamed I was a ferret and Gore Vidal was chasing me around the apartment.”  
  
  
“Hmm. Ferrets are illegal in New York City, did you know?”  
  
  
“Yes, I know.” It's probably not a good idea to engage annoying figments of his imagination in chit-chat, but Dave thinks it's probably worse to have had sex with said figment. The barn door is open and the horses are running free, at this point.  
  
  
"You look ghastly," the figment notes with warm sympathy. An even warmer hand strokes Dave's thigh pretty boldly. For a figment, it's really persistent. "Are you hungover?"  
  
  
"Apocalyptically. Aren't you?" Not that figments are capable of hangovers, or drinking--though Dave sort of remembers this particular figment had drunk him under the table almost literally.  
  
  
“Oh, I never get hangovers. It's in the family constitution, you know—nothing but hard-drinking Welshmen and Scots." The Murray-figment pats Dave's knee. "Good thing, too. Else I'd never been able to, em, you know, after I finished all that rum."  
  
  
“You finished my rum?” Dave squints his eyes open just a little. “The Bacardi, right? Not the—wait. 'um, you know',  _what_?"  
  
  
Murray does this thing with his eyebrows and grins. His whole face goes bright red, and Dave remembers. Not everything, but . . . enough. Remembers Murray shooing everyone out, all officious and prissy, annoying and unsteady, declaring the party "at an end, you blighters", right around the time Dave's legs had stopped working properly.  
  
  
He also remembers Murray helping him to bed, and pulling Murray down on top of him, laughing and panting. Then they'd been kissing, somehow, for some reason; good kisses— _surprisingly_  good. And they both should've had whiskey-dick after all the drinking, but they hadn't. Murray had stroked him off (more like touched. Just once, and Dave was gone) then Dave had rolled them over, pushed up Murray's stupid shirt, unbuttoned Murray's stupider khakis, and—  
  
  
“I will never drink again, Jesus, if you make this all go away. Now.”  
  
  
No answer from the big Jay-Cee, but Murray leans over him, brow furrowed. “I thought you were a Sikh.”  
  
  
“I am. Sort of. Shut up.” Dave closes his eyes—then yelps and opens them again when Murray's hand makes meaningful contact with his balls. He swats at Murray's hand and cover's his undeterred hard-on. “You're not a figment of my imagination, are you?”  
  
  
“Not that I'm aware of.” Thoughtful tone and momentary silence, in which Murray's stomach growls. “Nope. I'm real. The real deal. The dealie-yo. Fo' shizzle . . . is that right? 'Fo' shizzle'? I still don't even know what a shizzle is, really. . . .”  
  
  
“It's—oh, fucking Christ, out of all the dicks at my party, I can't believe I sucked yours,” Dave groans again, rolling out of bed. His stomach lurches in protest.  
  
  


Vanity Fare: Hitchin' A Ride

  
  
“So.”  
  
  
Dave looks up from his cereal. Even dressed, Murray is one squirrelly Englishmen, if Dave knows Englishmen. And if there's one thing Dave knows besides a bargain when he sees it, it's Englishmen. “A needle pulling thread, what's your point?”  
  
  
Murray clears his throat and shifts a little on heel and toe. His face is the color of a ripe beet and he looks absolutely ridiculous in his khaki shorts and green Polo shirt. “Nothing, just . . . well, I'm headed off to, em. Work.”  
  
  
“Good idea, chief!” Dave chomps down angrily on a spoonful of Cheerios. Normally he digs them, but covered in warm orange juice, they're nothing to write home about. Kinda like Murray.  
  
  
Which conjures up a vivid and unwelcome image of licking oh-jay and Cheerios off of Murray's furry chest. But what's even more intolerable than the mental picture, is Dave's complete lack of disgust regarding it. “You should get goin'. Don't let the door hit ya.”  
  
  
“Right. Right.” Murray shifts some more, then turns redder like some blushing virgin. It's then that Dave realizes he's been staring. Giving Murray the old hairy eyeball like he's some fine-ass chick, which he most definitely is not. “Right you are, David. I should go.”  
  
  
“You really should.”  
  
  
Heel and toe, heel and toe. “I'll see you around, then.”  
  
  
“Not if I see you first.”  
  
  
“Ah.” Heel-toe-heel-toe-heeeeeel . . . tooooooe. . . . “Ah-ha-ha! Yes, em, have good day.”  
  
  
“I plan to, as soon as you're gone.”  
  
  
“It's just that I thought you might like a lift to the pawn shop.”  
  
  
Considering the state of Dave's pounding skull . . . but no. Just  _no_. “Nah, I can walk it.”  
  
  
More shifting, and Murray's no closer to the door than he was five minutes ago, but he just  _may_ be closer to the table and Dave. He probably smells like Dave's soap, too. “You're joking. It's twenty blocks, and you look like death warmed over.”  
  
  
“Is that so?” Even Dave can't lie his way out of what he saw in the mirror before Murray used up all the hot water. “Well, I've been needing a day off.”  
  
  
“Then take one tomorrow, because today—“ Murray grabs a bandana off the table—the red one—and tosses it at Dave cheerfully. It lands in his cereal, but Murray doesn't care. He's got all the pep one would expect of a man who got the blow-job of his boring life. “Today, you've got a customer!”  
  
  
Dave seriously considers chucking the bowl, Cheerios, oh-jay, bandana, and all, at Murray's grinning face. Instead he settles for glowering. “What the fuck are you talking about?”  
  
  


The Lovin' Spoonful: You Didn't Have To Be So Nice

  
  
The only thing that could possibly make the morning worse happens.  
  
  
Well, the second worst. First would've been if Murray tried to  _make_  him a “proper breakfast” instead of merely buying him one. But at least he restrains himself from giving Dave more than a few calf-eyed looks, instead shoveling away diner chow like it's going out of style. It's Dave who's doing the staring. He picks at his hash browns and stares at Murray, noting the not-quite-red hair, messy and still a little wet, the longish nose, and the silly goatee, surrounding a surprisingly . . . kissable mouth.  
  
  
At least when there's not half a Jimmy Dean hanging out of it.  
  
  
“What?”  
  
  
Dave blinks and glares at Murray's confusion. He doesn't like being caught out staring at some lame-wad who's got to be the least sexy person Dave's ever met. Except for that time they had sex.  
  
  
“Nothin', nothin'. So what is it you need to buy so bad?”  
  
  
“Ah. A camcorder. A camcorder that shoots video.”  
  
  
“So not one of those camcorders that  _doesn't_  shoot video?” Dave rolls his eyes and stabs at his eggs. They're greasy and salty, just the way he likes them but still, he shows them no mercy. “What's your budget?"  
  
  
“Budget?” He says it like he's never heard the word before and Dave rolls his eyes again. “You want me to . . . bring in a budget. . . ?”  
  
  
And Murray may look like a complete re-re with that stupid expression on his face and sausage grease on his lips, but Dave has an intense moment of wanting to lick off that sausage grease. And then lick some more, for good measure.  
  
  
He's clearly going insane. So the pounding in his head and the throbbing in his groin inform him.  
  
  
“No, dingus, I mean what's your price range?”  
  
  
Murray deflates, that puppy-face turning hang-dog. “Ah. That. Well. Haven't got much money, have I? I, em, don't suppose you'd be willing to lend me—”  
  
  
“I ain't a bank, or a lie-berry. I don't lend shit.”  
  
  
If there's an expression worse than hang-dog, Murray's discovered it. Wears it for the rest of a silent breakfast, until Dave finally puts down his sixth cup of sugar-laced coffee-sludge and sighs heavily.  
  
  
“Just for today,” he grits out, and it doesn't totally  _get him_  somewhere deep down that Murray's got a really nice smile, the kind of smile Dave hardly ever sees anymore. “And it'll cost you. Like, twenty for the afternoon.”  
  
  
“That's—thank you—fantastic! Oh, but I don't need it for today, I need it for Saturday.”  
  
  
“Fine, whatever, just—take it down a notch. I haven't had my seventh cup yet,” Dave says, and it's gotta be pure coincidence that Murray's sneakered foot slides halfway up to his knee.  
  
  
Totally coincidental.  
  
  
“Uh.” Dave glances away from that questioning look in Murray's eyes but doesn't move his leg away. Because he's crazy like that. “So, what kinda video you shooting? Porno?”  
  
  
“Heavens, no!” Murray blushes and laughs. The snorting shouldn't be cute, but it is. He's like that retarded piglet from that movie about the farm. “It's about robots, actually. Bret and Jemaine are going to be in it. I'm directing. And I did the costume design. . . .”  
  
  
“Is that right? Bitchin'.” Dave signals their waitress for another cup of coffee, because Murray's off on a tangent, and there's no telling when he'll stop.  
  
  


Hall & Oates: Rich Girl

  
  
“Well. Here we are, the—“  
  
  
Before Murray can even finish the sentence, Dave's out the car and slamming the door shut. He shuffles his way across the street and toward the shop, muttering under his breath about Englishmen and awakward-ass silences. The car ride had been unbearable because of a purely sexual tension that Dave's never felt around someone who was Murray. This bullshit has to stop . . . be cut off at the knees before it goes any further.  
  
  
“Wait!”  
  
  
Dave quits jingling his keys, but doesn't stop walking or turn around. “Whaddup, chief?”  
  
  
Murray's engine shuts off, and the door opens and shuts in rapid succession. Sneakered feet pad across the street and stop a few feet behind Dave.  
  
  
“Look, about last night—“  
  
  
Dave misses the lock on his security gate four times; nearly stabs himself in the hand with his key. “I'm willing to pretend it never happened if you are.”  
  
  
Silence for so long, Dave nearly turns around. But that'd be a worse idea than letting Murray buy him breakfast. Dave's already had enough bright ideas to last him a lifetime. All he wants is to get inside his shop, lock the door, and wait for his head and his gut to stop giving him the business.  
  
  
“But why would I want to pretend it didn't happen?” Murray asks, sounding genuinely clueless about why last night was such a clusterfuck. He's a dope, and not for the first time, Dave wishes Murray were a little quicker on the uptake--that he didn't need things spelled out for him.  
  
  
“How 'bout because we're not gay, and last night? Kinda doesn't support that hypothesis, man.”  
  
  
“Actually. . . .”  
  
  
When Dave gives in and looks around, Murray's studying his feet, not-quite-red hair flopping over his forhead. “'Actually', what?”  
  
  
Murray's eyes meet his for a moment before going back to memorizing his sneakers. Dave takes a page from the same book and busies himself with the lock again. “That's great, that's just fucking . . . do Bret and Jemaine know?”  
  
  
“Of course. I used to date Bret's cousin, Bert.”  
  
  
Unlocking his security gate didn't used to be this difficult. Or this irritating. “Look, what you did back in England's your own business, chief. Me? I gotta shop to run.”  
  
  
“Em, that's New Zealand, not England.”  
  
  
“I don't really give a shit, okay?” Success! Dave shoves the gate to the side and quickly padlocks it open; unlocks the door and blocks it so Murray can't come in. Not that Murray tries; he just stands there looking like the biggest loser Dave ever saw, hands shoved in his pockets and hair hanging in his face.  
  
  
“How did I  _not_  figure out you were gay?” he wonders aloud, and Murray shrugs, looking defeated.  
  
  
“Beats me. I thought you knew, but just didn't care.”  
  
  
“I  _don't_  care. And  _I'm not_  gay,” he adds, just so there's no mistaken assumptions. “Not that there's anything wrong with being gay, I'm just not. And going down on you doesn't  _make me_ gay.”  
  
  
Which it doesn't, but the fact that Dave didn't think it was awful just might. It's something to ponder when his head feels less implodeable.  
  
  
“David. Dave. Last night was brilliant. At least by my standards, if not yours.” Murray squares his shoulders and looks Dave straight in the eye. “I don't know if maybe we could do it again . . . at the very least, I'd like to reciproca—”  
  
  
“No—no, just . . . I'll give Bret and Jemaine the camcorder when I see them. Get it back to me by Saturday evening, capiche?”  
  
  
That defeated look makes a comeback. “Right. Will do.”  
  
  
“Good. Peace out, boy scout.” Dave locks the door to his blessedly dim shop behind him. He leans against the door and slides down it, holding his head till he hears Murray's car start up.  
  
  
Even after Murray's engine has faded from hearing, Dave doesn't flip the CLOSED sign to OPEN.  
  
  


Chicago: 25 Or 6 To 4

  
  
Dave lays in his bed restless and too tired to sleep; too fresh off his hangover to drink himself into oblivion.  
  
  
His bed smells like Murray, and that's distracting. Makes him hard, which makes him have to fight  _being hard_ , which makes him harder, which makes him want to beat off, only . . . he knows that it'll be Murray's scent he'll be beating off to, and Murray's face he sees when he comes.  
  
  
His sigh is loud and frustrated in the near total silence of his bedroom.  
  
  
Why he'd thought it'd be a good idea to pull Murray down into bed with him, even hammered—why he'd thought  _kissing_  Murray would be the smart thing to do is completely beyond him. But how one annoying Englishman can go from not to hot in less than ten drinks is so far beyond Dave, it's in a whole 'nother galaxy.  
  
  
Eeven now, he can feel warm phantom fingers on his chest, his dick, his balls, just touching, as if mapping them out. Clever and curious, and—  
  
  
—maybe  _that_ 's it. Maybe Dave's having a moment of bi-curiosity. And of all the people Dave knows, Murray's the least likely to be offended or willing to start a fight over it. And even if he did try something, Dave could take him, easy-peasy Japanese-y.  
  
  
But he definitely doesn't find Murray hot. Not really. The man's a dweeb and a know-it-all; the kind of person who probably got his ass kicked every day of high school because he was such a prick—never mind the way his hair flops around, and that  _smile_. . . .  
  
  
Better to just get it out of his system. Denying it's only going to make things worse—the Romeo and Juliet Syndrome. It's a psychological analogy that applies, however badly. The more he ignores this weird attraction, the more intense it'll become. But if he just lets it run its course, the novelty or curiosity—what-the-fuck-ever—will wear off, and he'll be back to his usual bevvy of skanks in no time.  
  
  
Before he even finishes the thought, he's kicking off his blanket and shoving down his boxers. A few rough strokes and Dave arches up in his bed, and comes, surrounded by Murray's scent. Comes, seeing Murray's face and imagining his hand is Murray's throat.  
  
  
After cleaning himself up with a few paper towels from a roll he keeps near the bed for just this purpose, Dave rolls onto his stomach and tells himself that's it. He's got it out of his system and can rest easy. He doesn't have to imagine what it'd feel like to have Murray's lips on his cock, or wonder if he swallows. Whether he tops or bottoms, and which, if either, would be preferable, hypothetically speaking.  
  
  
He doesn't have to rationalize away a fluke attraction that's doubtless lost it's hold with sobriety and satisfaction.  
  
  
Right?  
  
  
Dave tells himself that all night, and come sun-up he still doesn't quite believe it.  
  
  


Eric Carmen: All By Myself

  
  
Murray putters around his tiny apartment listlessly.  
  
  
It's after midnight, and he has to be up early to shoot the damned video, but he just can't seem to close his eyes for long enough to sleep. Every time he tries, he sees Dave.  
  
  
It's silly, really. He's not a school girl with a crush on that Justin Timberland fellow. He's sensible, stolid  _Murray_. Murray, whose world has been knocked clean of its axis by a rude, crude, funny, sexy man, who happens to want nothing whatever to do with him.  
  
  
A sorry state of affairs, yes, but entirely familiar. It's been this way since high school. Every girl he dated, or tried to date until he came out. Then every man he dated, or tried to date, until he moved to the States. Since the move, he's practically been a eunuch, though not for lack of effort on his part.  
  
  
And he'd never thought to break the dry-spell with Bret and Jemaine's disdainful, gad-about of a friend, attractive though he was. He'd never have guessed that he'd enjoy it so much, hazy though the details are. And  _what_  a haze it was . . . staring up at Dave's cracked ceiling as his prick was engulfed in wet warmth—fumbling and amateur, yes, but lovely, nonetheless.  
  
  
For a man who isn't gay, he certainly shows promise in that direction.  
  
  
Which is where Murray's sleeplessness kicks in. Oh, sure, he's wanked about eighty thousand times, but chafing aside, all he can think about it last night. About how good it felt to not just get a bit of the other, but to fall asleep—well, lose consciousness—with someone's arms around him, someone's boozy, hot breath tickling his neck and someone's slightly sticky hand on his stomach. . . .  
  
  
It'd been nice, while it lasted. Which wasn't very long.  
  
  
So once more, Murray finds himself all  _by_  himself. He may not want to be, but then what he wants is very rarely taken into account by the universe or any of its denizens.  
  
  
Sometimes, Murray wishes he was back home. Not because he misses it, but because there, he'd come to expect rejection as part of his due. Here, in the land of opportunity, he'd hoped to at least have a chance at a fresh start.  
  
  
Eventually, he goes to bed. Sleep is a long time coming, and not terribly gracious about staying.  
  
  


The Buckinghams: Kind of A Drag

  
  
“. . . it's just that I think she might be the One.”  
  
  
“Sally?”  
  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
  
“What makes you think that?”  
  
  
“You just know—when it happens to you, you'll know.”  
  
  
“You said Michele's the One.”  
  
  
“Yeah, she's the One.”  
  
  
“You said Claire was the One.”  
  
  
“Yeah, she's another One.”  
  
  
“So you get more than one One?”  
  
  
“Some people are lucky. And I've had a few Ones.”  
  
  
"How many Ones can you have?" Bret asks curiously.  
  
  
"Five," Jemaine says with impressive certainty. Talking out of his backside, as usual. Murray huffs and finishes loading his masterpieces into the back of his car. He hopes Bret and Jemaine are up for a good walk, unless they want to ride in the trunk.  
  
  
By the time Murray's done shifting the robot suits about, Bret's wistfully murmuring something that Jemaine, moppet that he is, is probably ignoring in favor of whatever carnival is going on inside his head. Then Bret is saying something about returning the camcorder to Dave—  
  
  
"I'll do that!" Startled, they both look around at him, and he clears his throat. He closes the car door nonchalantly and saunters over to the pair, hands shoved into his pocket. "I mean, it's on my way, so I suppose I should run it back to him—"  
  
  
"But Dave's shop isn't on your way at all," Jemaine cuts in, only to be elbowed by Bret who simply hands the camcorder over and smiles.  
  
  
"Good luck," he says, patting Murray on the arm.  
  
  
"Good luck with what?" Murray and Jemaine ask, Murray blushing and Jemaine looking puzzled. Bret shakes his head and elbows Jemaine again.  
  
  
"Come on. We've got a walk ahead of us."  
  
  
Jemaine scratches his head. "I think we could fit in the trunk, actually."  
  
  
"Em. I have a metrocard that I was saving just in case the car died again. If you don't mind cramming into the front for a few minutes, I can even drive you to the subway," Murray offers distractedly, his mind on other things.  
  
  
They share a look and a shrug. "Okay," they say in tandem, grinning. It's a little eerie, but Murray couldn't care less. He's too busy being wound up at the prospect of seeing Dave again. Silly, yes, getting his hopes up like always. But some part of him is certain that prickliness and disdain aside, Dave had enjoyed what happened between them. Or that he at least didn't hate it. Much has been made of less, or so Murray's been told.  
  
  
"Right. In we go, then."  
  
  


Eric Carmen: Hungry Eyes

  
  
The little bell over the door tinkles when Murray walks into Dave's shop after minutes of staring in at Dave (who's behind the counter doing his books, looking half-miserable, half-angry and all good).  
  
  
"Fuck off, Isabella, I told you I don't deal in desserts," he says irritably, without looking up. He stabs at an ancient calculator with a grimy-looking pencil.  
  
  
"It's me. Hi—hullo." Murray waves, but it's wasted, since Dave still doesn't look up. "I, er, brought your camera back."  
  
  
"Coolsville, daddy-o. Just leave it on the counter and have a nice day."  
  
  
Gingerly doing as he's been told, Murray places the camera on the far end of the counter. Then he casts about for something to say, and comes up empty-brained. He rocks back and forth on his heels and toes for nearly three minutes, hoping Dave will look up, or say something else. He doesn't, except to swear at his calculator.  
  
  
"Well, I guess this is good-bye, then."  
  
  
Dave grunts. "It will be, once you leave."  
  
  
"Right."  
  
  
More silence, and not looking up. Finally, Murray sighs. "You won't even give me a chance, will you?"  
  
  
Still nothing, though Dave's pencil stutters over the calculator keys for a moment.  
  
  
"It was just a one night stand," he mutters at last. "I dunno what you expect from me."  
  
  
"How about an honest conversation? Or at least civil discourse? I'm not a bloody leper."  
  
  
Dave finally glances up at Murray, eyes narrowed. He looks a lot better than he had the last time they talked. He looks . . . like exactly what Murray's been wanting all his life without knowing he wanted it. Every line, every scruffy hair of him is absolutely perfect. The distrust and accusation in his dark, dark eyes only serves to accent them.  
  
  
"Why're you looking at me like that?"  
  
  
Murray's face heats up and he averts his eyes. "What? Looking at you like what?"  
  
  
Dave snorts. "Like I'm a slab of meatloaf and you forgot to pack a lunch."  
  
  
"I—erm—“  
  
  
"Jesus, man, you're so fucking transparent." Dave frowns and bites his lip. "You're looking at me like you want me to be your boyfriend."  
  
  
"Well . . . would that be something you were interested in. . . ?"  
  
  
"Look, chief, just because we had a one night stand, doesn't mean it means anything, or has to turn into anything, okay?" Dave leans on the counter, neither close nor far away. His eyes seem older than the rest of him, and it occurs to Murray that he has no idea how old Dave actually is. "Sometimes a hummer is just a hummer, alright?"  
  
  
"I suppose." Murray moves closer to Dave. Close enough to brush the hand resting on the calculator. It's a few seconds before Dave pulls his hand away. "But what if I want more than just one go?"  
  
  
"What if I don't?"  
  
  
"Do you don't? I mean—" Murray clears his throat. "I mean—"  
  
  
"You don't know what you mean, and I'm pretty sure I don't wanna find out. We're two guys who got drunk and got off. Believe me, it happens. Maybe not to me, but there's a first and only time for everything. You've gotta accept that, and move on, okay? Let that kite fly, find some other dude who's into Englishmen, and a year from now, we'll laugh about this whole thing. By which I mean we'll never discuss it again. 'Kay?"  
  
  
"No, it's  _not_  okay. It's really, really not,” Murray says softly, and Dave blinks. Then blinks again. Opens his mouth to say—something, when his eyes flick past Dave and he sneers.  
  
  
"Isabella. What the fuck're you doin' back here? I'm busy."  
  
  
Just then, a scraggly, heavy-set man barges past Murray and plops a cake that's seen better days onto the counter near the camera. His smudgy glasses do nothing to hide the anxiety in his round eyes. "Look, man, I just want my tv, man. I have this cake, see—"  
  
  
"Is this the same cake from two days ago? Eww, you nasty fuck, get the fuck outta my shop before I make a fucking wish then ram that cake up your ass one slice at a time!"  
  
  
Dave and Isabella are still bickering determinedly when Murray quietly leaves.  
  
  


Nancy Sinatra: Bang Bang

  
  
"What's wrong with him?"  
  
  
"Dunno. He's been like this since he showed up here."  
  
  
Jemaine and Bret loom over Murray, who closes his eyes and does his best to sink into their sofa. On the armrest behind his head is a bike helmet that looks like hair and smells like cheap shampoo.  
  
  
"I think things didn't go well with Dave," Bret says sympathetically. Murray doesn't even care enough to protest—make up some lie about why he's even at their flat to begin with.  
  
  
"What things? The camcorder?"  
  
  
"Don't be a plank." Creaking sounds as Bret—and probably Jemaine sit on their coffee table to watch him.  
  
  
"How'm I being a plank?"  
  
  
"I'll tell you later. Look, Murray . . . would you like a pizza?" Bret can be patently ridiculous without even trying. Murray almost laughs. "I mean, we don't have any money, but Eugene might—"  
  
  
"Yeah, but Eugene still wants last month's rent," Jemaine chimes in.  
  
  
"Well, yeah. But he knows we're good for the rent  _eventually_. And the pizza money. . . ."  
  
  
Rolling on his side away from the second round of idiotic bickering he's put up with today, Murray tunes them out. Ignores their questions, and the pizza when it gets there, and wonders what it is he keeps doing wrong.  
  
  
He wonders why he even bothers to try anymore.  
  
  


Bonnie Tyler: I Need A Hero

  
  
Even after such a horrible weekend, Monday is  _bad_.  
  
  
Bad enough that Murray's computer freezes twice and tech support can't get to it till Wednesday. Worse, still, that he stapled his thumb to a three-page memo on office dress code (said memo only had to be written up because Carmelita wears clothing a hooker would find too risque).  
  
  
The absolute final straw is scalding his tongue with coffee that may have a half-life of ten thousand years and then spilling it all down his front.  
  
  
"Argh!" He yells and rips off his work shirt, flinging it at Gregg, who pokes his head in to see what all the ruckus is about. Murray grabs his jacket and storms past the man, who jumps out of the way, still holding the steaming shirt.  
  
  
He stomps down the stairs, past the massage parlor, giving the ladies a curt nod as he goes. They wave flirtatiously, as always, but Murray's in no mood for games.  
  
  
Once in his car, he takes a moment to realize he has no idea where he's going. Then he realizes he  _does_  know where he's going, for once in his life, and that it's really the only place he wants to be.  
  
  
He peels out of his parking space, a man on a mission.  
  


*

  
  
"Listen, Isabella," Dave starts waspishly as the door to his shop tinkles, hard and abrupt. Murray doesn't waste any words. He simply strides up to the counter and hauls Dave half over it for long, thorough kiss. The kind of kiss he's seen in romantic movies, but never had the stones to try before today.  
  
  
It's no small coup that Dave gives up trying to talk after a few seconds and starts taking part. He moans, and puts one hand on the back of Murray's neck to pull him closer, stroking Murray's nape and scritching his fingers through Murray's hair.  
  
  
“Now, how's  _that_  for flying a kite?” Murray breaks the kiss to demand, noting the way Dave tries to follow him, eyes closed and lips puckered. “There's more where that came from, but quit acting like you don't want it.”  
  
  
Dave leans back, surprised. But for once, Murray has the courage of his convictions, and he's not going to stop just because he might be embarrassed later. "I think you got off on being with me not just because we were drunk, but because you're attracted to me. I think you're scared of exploring that attraction, and you're scared of being gay because you've spent your whole life being doggedly straight. I think you're passing up something and someone with real potential because you're spineless, when it comes down to it. You like to talk a big game, but you're really just a scared little closet-case who doesn't know who he is and what he really wants."  
  
  
Dave does that blinking thing again. Licks his lips and looks away. "That's what you think, huh?"  
  
  
"That's what I  _know_ , and you know  _what?_  I don't really give a shit! That's right! I said  _shit_! Shit-shit-shit! I don't give a  _shit_  how scared you are. I can be brave for us both if you'll just meet me halfway, just give me a cha—" Murray's tirade is cut off by Dave's mouth against his own, Dave's tongue against his own.  
  
  
Just like that, they're kissing again. And when it ends, Murray's left weak-kneed, and unable to do more than hold onto the counter and stammer. "Wha? Wha?"  
  
  
" _Wow_. I thought it was just a fluke. That what happened was just some random misfire because we were drunk off our asses. But just now . . . holy shit, that was hot, the way you stormed in here and just took what you wanted." Dave sighs, hanging his head and laughing ruefully. " _You're_  hot, and that's . . . the last thing I need right now, but I'll be damned if I pass up on more."  
  
  
And true to his word, Dave's kissing him again, but briefly, breaking it with a bunch of smaller kisses. "You've got a pair on you, chief. Who'da thunk? A big brass pair. But you should get outta here before someone stomps our asses into the pavement."  
  
  
"But—you said—"  
  
  
"I know what I said, and you know where I live," Dave murmurs, straightening up and glancing over Murray's shoulder. So does Murray, half expecting to see a man with a cake. But it's just some woman eyeing a Fender and amp in the window. "I get home around eight thirty. Don't keep me waiting."  
  
  
"Well. If I did, I'd make it worth it," Murray says confidently, and struts out of the shop, past the woman eyeing the Fender. He even tips a completely imaginary hat to her, which earns him a grin.  
  
  
Above him, the sky is a bright blue with fluffy clouds. Around him, the sounds of Lower Manhattan blend into one glorious cacophany and the air smells like curry and whatever cleaning chemical's  _Mrs. Lao's Cleaners_  uses. Buoyed by his recent luck, and by the wonder that is New York City in the Fall, he makes it all the way around the corner and to his car before his knees give out. He sags against the driver-side door, giggling like a naughty schoolboy, sucking absently on his punctured thumb.  
  
  
"What a brilliant day!" he exclaims to no one in particular. Passing by in a baseball cap and poncho, Isabella looks at him as if he's gone off the deep end, then shrugs and tries to sell him a gently-used cake.


	2. Just Four Little Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave says four little words. Murray tries to talk to him about three of those words. Dave's having none of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine.

  
When Dave opens his bedroom door he expects to see his Amma, but instead he sees Murray, his. . . .  
  
Whatever he is.  
  
“Hello, David,” his-whatever says, hang-dog expression arc-welded to his long face. That look makes Dave's tummy feel funny, and not in the heatwantnowsex-way.  
  
“Heyya, chief. How's tricks?”  
  
“Em. Dunno who she is, but—look, about what you said last night—“  
  
Dave smirks, though it feels plastic and fake; drops his voice to a rough sotto. “I thought you liked it when I called you  _Big Daddy_?”  
  
Murray turns scarlet—a color for which Dave once had no previous reference. But that was before he and Murray started sleeping together.  
  
“That's not what I was referring to, and you know it.” Murrays barges past Dave into the room. He sits on the bed, kicking off his shoes and shrugging out of his windbreaker. His hair is still neat, but it rarely stays that way around Dave.  
  
It's weird how well he fits in this room, and in Dave's life. Even Amma and Appa like him—thought that may be because they don't know Dave's sleeping with him.  
  
“You're pacing,” Murray says, and Dave immediately stops. Then he glares and determinedly starts pacing again.  
  
“'S my room, chief, and I'll pace all damn day, if I want.” Dave crosses his arms in a way that'd look bad-ass if he wasn't wearing his orange bathrobe. As it is, Murray just seems amused. Hang-dog, still, but amused. He pats the bed.  
  
“Come sit by me, won't you, darling? You look like a caged orangutan.”  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
“Is that all you have to say?” Murray rolls his eyes. They've picked up each others' bad habits. “I'm trying to have a serious conversation about something that's very important.”  
  
Which means it's time to change the subject entirely. So Dave saunters over to Murray, shrugs off his robe, and stands there naked; for just long enough that Murray's eyes glaze over.  
  
Smirking once again, Dave puts his hands on Murray's shoulders and straddles his lap. “I'm sorry, what were you saying?”  
  
“Em . . . you're naked. . . .”  
  
“Yeah, how 'bout that, Big Daddy?”  
  
Dave lets himself be pushed to the bed and kissed silly. Kissed till he's distracted enough to forget he's being distracting. But he manages to keep his cool until Murray's inside him, beet-red and panting, with a fierce look of focus on his face as he thrusts.  
  
Dave angles his body any way he can, till Murray's as deep as he'll go. Till Dave could swear there's foreskin bumping his tonsils.  
  
“Oh,  _fuck_ ,” he moans, screwing his eyes shut as he comes. “I fucking  _love_  you!”  
  
Then Dave lays there in a sweaty, sated, but vaguely miffed heap. Soon Murray grunts and comes, collapsing on him.  
  
Dave simply glowers at the ceiling.  
  
Distraction?  
  
More like  _epic fail_.  
  
“I love you, too, David.” Murray kisses Dave's face gently, hugging him close and laughing when Dave tells him to go fuck himself.


	3. Mum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave meets Murray's Mum. Luggage is juggled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Takes place a few months after "Just Four Little Words," but just before the Crazy Dogggz incident.  
> Disclaimer: It goes without saying these guys aren't mine.

  
“Airports fucking suck,” Dave complains miserably. Then tosses the last few stale honey-roasted peanuts in his mouth. Just in time for Murray to steal a quick kiss that's really not all that quick.  
  
  
“You taste delicious,” Murray whispers, taking the empty peanut bag and tossing it at a nearby garbage can. He misses, of course, and Dave snorts.  
  
  
“I'll bet.” He sighs and lets himself get kissed again, in the middle of LaGuardia. Neither of them used to be such PDA whores, but everything about what they have is unlike anything that came before. Dave's days of not kissing men in airports are over.  
  
  
And anyway, it's not like there're a lot of people hanging around to watch them make out. It's 3:47am, and the baggage claim area is fairly empty. The only reason he and Murray are still here is because Murray's mom's flight is, though arrived, waiting to taxi up to the airport. As predicted by a grumpy Murray twenty minutes ago.  
  
  
Now, Murray's not so much grumpy, as he's . . . starting to get hard while licking Dave's tonsils. Which is all good, except. . . .  
  
  
“Your mom's gonna catch us humping in the airport, Chief,” he says between more peanut-y kisses that also taste like over-priced orange juice.  
  
  
“And?” Murray laughs a little, but stops kissing Dave to look him in the eye. “Mum knows you're my boyfriend. I'm certain she's guessed that we've had sexual contact, since we're co-habitating.”  
  
  
“Mm, I love it when you talk dirty.” Dave sighs and wraps his arms around Murray's neck. “I'll tell them, okay? I promise I will, it's just . . . hard. At least your family knew you were gay. Mine still think I'm boning anything with tits.”  
  
  
Murray sighs, too, and kisses Dave's forehead, just below the bandana. “Right, then. After Mum goes back to New Zealand?”  
  
  
“I'll . . . try,” Dave swears, cupping Murray's hangdog face in his hands. “Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye if I lie.”  
  
  
“Well, there's no need for all  _that_. I quite like your eyes sans needles,” Murray tuts, holding Dave's gaze in a pretty meaningful way. His hands are on Dave's hips with intent to move back further, and this is a  _great_  way to pass time till Mrs. Hewitt shows up. “Now, where were we, my darling?”  
  
  
“Hmm, right about to find a deserted place for you to fuck me, Big Daddy,” Dave murmurs, zeroing in for another airport-kiss when a scream nearly startles the peanuts out of him.  
  
  
“THERE'S MUMMY'S LITTLE MURRAY-KINS!” A female voice screeches from seemingly everywhere, like if God was a really loud Scottish chick. He and Murray spring apart just in time for Dave to nearly get bowled over by a curly-haired powerhouse in a powder-blue sweatsuit who hugs Murray so hard, he squeaks. On her heels come a bunch of tired, bleary-looking passengers.  
  
  
“Missed—you, too—Mum—” he gasps, wrapping his arms around the Scottish chick, who only hugs him harder, cooing at him like a giant pigeon.  
  
  
 _What a momma's boy._  Which is all Dave has time to think before he, too, is engulfed in a vice-like squeeze. Hulk Hogan-style. He gasps, too, as his feet leave the floor for a moment. “Ow, fuck—Mrs. H—“  
  
  
“Oh, there'll be none of that, lad. You'll call me 'Mum,'” she informs him, letting him go to hold him at arms length and look him over critically with dark eyes. She could be Murray in drag—long, hangdog face, and all—which makes Dave grin. She grins back, and it makes her kind of pretty.  
  
  
“Well. As you've clearly guessed, this is David. My, em. Boyfriend,” Murray says belatedly, scratching his head. He looks nervous and a little pained.  
  
  
“You're handsome enough, but you want feeding, dear boy,” Mrs. Hewitt,  _Mum_  decides. Then she turns a stern gaze on Murray, who quails. “Murray Abner Hewitt, have you not been taking care of him? He's skin and bones!”  
  
  
“Abner?” Dave asks Mum. She nods, reminding him of Murray at his most sincere.  
  
  
“Oh, yes. As a boy, he always insisted everyone call him Abby—and Heaven help us if we didn't. He'd ignore us for days!”  
  
  
Dave cuts a quick, smug glance at Murray. “You were a flamey little bastard, weren'tcha,  _Abby_?”  
  
  
Murray huffs. “Well. At least  _you_  can pronounce  _my_  middle name. And Mum, David's not skin and bones, let me assure you. He's just got a high metabolism. Anyway, you know I don't cook that well,” he mumbles.  
  
  
“That's no excuse. No one's  _born_  knowing how to cook. They learn, don't they?” Mum takes Dave's arm. “Bring the luggage, love, and don't slitter. Don't worry, Dave, once I get settled in, we'll set you up with some of Mum's olive loaf, and all the milk you can drink.”  
  
  
“What the fuck is an olive loaf? It sounds nasty.” Dave makes a face.  
  
  
“He's allergic to dairy, Mum.” He's struggling to get his mom's bags off the conveyor belt and elbowing people to do so.  
  
  
 _I've rubbed off on him. And he's starting to act like me, too._  Dave smirks and admires the view. In knee length jean-cutoffs and Dave's old Iron Maiden t-shirt, bending over to pick up and put down luggage Murray looks completely bone-able.  _I'm definitely gonna tap that later. He's all mine._  “Yeah, but I brought plenty of Lactaid with me, so bring on the moo-juice. And the olive loaf, I guess.”  
  
  
“Splendid! And while you eat, I'll show you all the baby photos Murray never wants anyone to see! He really was quite an adorable, if temperamental child.”  
  
  
“ _No_ —not the baby photos!” Murray wheezes.  
  
  
“He's an adorable man.” When Mum gives him a knowing look, he clears his throat. Watches Murray experimentally lift one huge Samsonite, then another. The one with the wheels promptly tips over, and Murray has to put the first two down to pick it up. He shoots Dave a half resentful, half pleading look. “I mean, uh. He's okay. For Murray.”  
  
  
“You might give me a hand with the luggage, darling.”  
  
  
“Yeah, I just might,” Dave agrees, but makes no promises. He's already got a big promise to keep, and no clue how he's gonna keep it. But he means to, if it'll make Murray happy.  
  
  
At any rate, Dave's also sick of them lying to his parents.  
  
  
“You'll like this, Dave: it just so happens I have a few photos of Murray when he was a teenager.” Mum begins to root around in a purse that's roughly the size of Trenton. When she finds her wallet, she elbows Dave lightly to get his wandering attention. “Did you know he was in a chamber music orchestra? The Auckland String Society, they were called. Murray played the zither. . . .”  
  
  
“What's a zither?” Dave asks just as Mum flips to the first picture of Murray—who couldn't be older than thirteen—wearing a suit and tie and holding the weirdest looking instrument Dave's ever seen. “Wow. Asked, and answered.”  
  
  
“Wasn't he handsome in his wee brown suit?” Mum says proudly, then flips through a few more photos.   
  
  
“ _Mum_!” Murray's just about got all the luggage handled. The two Samsonites are under his arms, the handled of the wheeled bag in his left hand. He's trying to get Dave's backpack with the right. “I note your arms aren't broken, David—ow, bloody wheels—”  
  
  
“Lift with your back, not with your legs, hon, or you'll pull a hammy—so is 'zither' English for 'fucked-up harp?'” Dave takes the last photo from Mum's wallet and whistles appreciatively. Even as a teenager, Murray had the goatee. His hair was ruthlessly slicked back, though. “Nice dress, Chief. Were you  _ever_  cool?”  
  
  
“It's a  _choral robe_ , not a—“ Murray seems to be juggling luggage like a pro before he drops it all. Most of it lands on his feet, and he swears, hopping on one foot, then the other, turning bright red as he does.  
  
  
Dave and Mum look at each other. Mum shrugs.   
  
  
“Well, if you needed help with the luggage, love, why'd you not  _say_  so?” she asks exasperatedly, putting her hands her hips. Murray sputters and huffs.  
  
  
“Your mom is awesome,” Dave tells him.


End file.
